


Off the Clock

by seperis



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-24
Updated: 2008-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-03 17:15:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seperis/pseuds/seperis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty-four hour gaming tournaments have predictable ends, and Casey doubts Chuck's eaten anything without processed sugar since Ellie brought him dinner last night at work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Off the Clock

**Author's Note:**

> So there was this thing where being force-fed two seasons of Chuck over two days either leads to insanity or--well, you see how my options were limited. Thank svmadelyn for that. Thanks to svmadelyn for the read-through and transtempts for going above and beyond to beta and make lots and lots of soothing noises.
> 
> So by svmadelyn's request, fic*. Merry Christmas.

There's nothing surprising in the messy pile of clothes and limbs on the couch that Casey identifies as Chuck; the Buy More shift schedule had indicated this particular outcome on Monday and a check of the hospital roster had done the rest. Casey thinks about unlocked doors and the vulnerable line of Chuck's back for a second, then puts the Thai on the table and checks his gun.

Chuck rolls over just enough to open one eye and still stay on the couch at the sharp click. "Hey," he mutters, one hand pawing the air in a vague hello before he curls back up again with a sleepy mumble.

It's a comfortable couch; Casey knows. He bought it for just this reason. It's tempting to grab the blanket off the bed and shove Chuck over, fall asleep to the sound of Chuck's breathing. Instead, he gets a beer and circles the table, leaning back to wait.

A while later, Chuck rolls over and yelps, one arm flailing for the floor; Casey doesn't smile into his beer. Pushing himself awkwardly upright, Chuck runs a hand through his hair and succeeds in making it stand up even more. "World of Warcraft," he mumbles in explanation. "Mountain Dew." Shaking his head, his eyes light up when they find the bags. "Oh, Thai. Can I have some?"

And this is the guy that the CIA had once wanted to recruit. Casey gestures toward the bags and doesn't bother looking for plates.

"You got enough for three people," Chuck says in surprise much later, surfacing from the ruins of cardboard boxes and Styrofoam long enough to practice his social skills; that he's even holding a fork is because Casey pushed one into his hand when he was distracted by imminent starvation. Twenty-four hour gaming tournaments in Casey's Chuck-related experience have fairly predictable ends, and Casey doubts Chuck's eaten anything without processed sugar since Ellie brought him dinner last night at work.

Casey'd point out Chuck says that every time, but then again, Chuck's still not noticed that the door's always unlocked when he comes by, so go figure.

After a while, Chuck narrates the dramatic raids carried out on unsuspecting guilds, fingers sketching out patterns of attack that remind Casey of a particularly convoluted invasion attempt in the Philippines circa early nineties. There's a brief interlude to chase down a soda, like caffeine's something Chuck needs more of, then the tragedy that was Anna kicking him and Morgan out with a warning not to come back without pancakes.

Casey may not speak Geek, but he knows his geeks, and Anna wasn't talking about pancakes. He hopes Morgan thought to recaffeinate before going home, because he has a hell of a long night ahead of him. "Right."

Chuck sighs, eyeing the empty containers in faint dissatisfaction. "Anyway, Ellie and Devon both had a night off for once, so hope you didn't mind me crashing here."

Casey tries to convey his resigned irritation by expression alone and pushes another container at Chuck before he tries to talk again. Chuck smiles happily, attention focused on food that isn't cheetos or something with the word Hostess in the name. Not for the first time, Casey wonders if Chuck living with Ellie is Ellie's subtle way of circumventing Chuck's death by starvation or diabetic coma.

"Late shift?" Chuck asks in interest, because the difference between Chuck and most of the world is that he actually wants to hear the answer.

"Some shoplifters," Casey answers, taking a drink.

"Armed with a wicked left hook from the look of your eye," Chuck observes so mildly it takes Casey a few seconds to follow. Casey scowls, but Chuck's already standing up. "Tell me you didn't sit here watching me eat while bleeding out."

"I'm fine, Bartowski."

But Chuck's like a very small dog with very sharp teeth, nipping along at your heels and always leaping out of the way of a good kick; Casey's pulled to his feet before he can marshal any kind of argument, aware of long fingers brushing against the graze just below his ribs, blood drying the cloth against his skin. He's more tired than he'd thought; he never lets Chuck get this close.

Close enough to hear Chuck hiss, checking him up and down with no method and too much enthusiasm; he gets an elbow in the (uninjured, thank God) ribs, and the scrape of nails as Chuck tracks down a damp stain on his knee from a puddle before he straightens and hooks a hand around Casey's arm. "You have a first aid kit?"

Casey slow blinks the obvious answer and tries to pull away without success; life-long video game addicts have one hell of a grip from all those hours of clutching controllers. Reluctantly, he leaves the beer behind before he crushes it on Chuck's head, because it's too tempting and it's also a waste of good beer. "Bartowski--"

"It could get infected," Chuck says with the conviction of a born-again evangelist, probably because Ellie put the fear of bacteria in him as soon as she possibly could once she realized what kind of brother she was dealing with. Pulled into the bathroom without any clear memory of going through the bedroom, Casey lets himself be pushed down on the toilet out of sheer self-defense. He's learned to pick his battles, because Chuck's willing to go to war when he thinks he's right, and Casey's too tired for even a skirmish tonight. "Hold still."

Something wet is pressed against his side, to loosen the dried blood, Casey suspects. At this rate, it'll be hours before he sees his bed; grunting, he pushes Chuck's hands aside and jerks off the shirt, feeling the rip of cloth from skin and ignoring the surprising burn. Chuck makes a disapproving sound, shoving the washcloth back against his side, one hand pressed against Casey's arm to hold it out of the way.

"Graze," Chuck says flatly. Twisting his head around, Casey sees Chuck kneeling on the floor, bloody washcloth in one hand. "From a missile?"

"A very small one." Chuck's head jerks up, eyes wide. "Portable missile launcher. Arms dealer." Something else, but the last three missions run together, like a sitcom with the same five jokes every week.

Casey realizes he'd closed his eyes, and jerks them open, watching Chuck inexpertly apply the thin film of antibiotic, covering it with gauze he holds with two fingers before he pulls out the pre-cut tape, looking at it for a second with an expression Casey can't read. Beside him, Casey can see the kit open, the contents still in their correct places; painkillers and surgical thread, needles and staples, butterfly bandages and antibiotics, a small array of surgical equipment for everything from bullet removal to burn treatment, the do-it-yourself repair kit for the lone field agent.

Chuck's more careful than he needs to be, butterfly-light touches as he smoothes the tape into place, and Casey can see Ellie in the way he makes sure the gauze isn't taped too tight, the straight edges that line up with the natural flow of muscle beneath the skin. Standing up, Chuck fingers rub together, rust-colored blood flaking against his skin, and washes his hands in the sink, oblivious to the blood speckling his shirt.

Turning around, he leans into the sink, oblivious to still wet hands. "You should have gone to the hospital," he says quietly. Chuck's still a civilian in all the important ways; he can still be shocked.

"Not that bad." Casey tries to think of what to say to send Chuck out of the bathroom and back to the couch. Chuck's running on sleep deprivation and sugar; once he's prone, he'll be down for the count and Casey can have some goddamn quiet. "Get out."

Chuck flinches like Casey punched him, hands tightening on the sink with Casey's blood trapped beneath bitten fingernails. "Stop it."

"Bartowski--"

"You were shot--"

"I wasn't--"

"And you just sat there and didn't say anything while I--" Chuck's mouth tightens, eyes looking anywhere but at him, and Casey kind of wants to just throw him out of the bathroom so he'll stop and kind of wants to tell him that if he'd known he'd had a black eye, he would have been more careful to dim the lights.

"If it had been bad, would have gone to Walker," he answers shortly. "I'm fine."

Chuck looks down. "You could have come to me."

Christ. "Bartowski--"

Chuck shrugs. "I know, not a real spy," he says with that familiar, acid edge of disillusionment that makes Casey imagine Bryce's face on the wall in easy distance of his fist. Casey's dangerously close to saying what's burned on the tip of his tongue since the last time Bryce showed up like some kind of personal reminder to Chuck that he'll always be second best.

And Casey's too damn tired to be thinking shit like this. Reaching out, he gets Chuck by the arm, pulling him off the sink. "Look, Bartowski--" he starts, but that's as far as he gets, because Chuck's looking down, shoulders slumped with familiar defeat. Casey tilts his head up and forgets what he wanted to say; suddenly, all he wants to do is make that bruised look go away.

It's easier to kiss him than talk to him anyway.

Chuck make a startled sound, one hand knocking against his bandaged side then jerking away with a muffled apology and grabbing for the sink behind him. Casey hears something crack against the floor, gets another mumbled apology and this time, pushes his tongue in Chuck's mouth.

In all the time he's known the guy, he hadn't ever thought it would be this easy to shut him up.

He can feel the moment Chuck goes from shocked panic to hopeful panic; a subtle difference that starts with the tentative hands sliding around his back, leaning into the kiss with messy enthusiasm and Chuck trying to talk again. "Casey. Uh. I--"

Casey pulls back, rolling his eyes, but he can't stop himself from running a thumb over Chuck's reddening lips. "Don't you ever shut up?"

One corner of his mouth quirks up. "Not really, no." They're close enough in height that Chuck just reaches around, hooking an arm around Casey's neck, pulling him in again, mouth soft and slick, tongue sliding against Casey's lip distractedly. The gentle glide of tongue makes the difference between interested and committed, and Casey hears himself growl, shoving Chuck back onto the sink, pinned against the mirror, and whatever the hell was on the sink makes a dramatic sound on the floor.

Casey really can't worry about his toothbrush at the moment; Chuck's pushing up against him, one sneaker locked around the back of Casey's knee, free hand balanced on the edge of the sink, and they're about two minutes from someone's spine breaking or a serious need for later bathroom renovations, and Casey can't really think of any plausible way to explain that on an expense report.

Getting away from that mouth is hard enough; Chuck's got a gamer's single-minded focus and the impulse control of a teenager. Casey can't remember the last time he slept with anyone who didn't care if they were sitting on toothpaste or acted like Casey was committing a crime against humanity by pulling away. "No," Chuck says mulishly, locking a leg around Casey's thigh. "Don't--"

"Not stopping, Bartowski," Casey says; it's weird how decades of combat training are pretty fucking useless in the face of the naked enthusiasm of someone probably two thirds his body weight. Setting his feet, he pries Chuck off the sink and reminds himself to throw Chuck's jeans in the washer before the toothpaste sets. He kisses away the first protest and slides a hand down the front of Chuck's pants, which in fact doesn't shut him up but does get him still, at least long enough to get the door open and push him into the bedroom.

Chuck, thankfully, gets with the program, pulling off his shirt before he stops short, squinting at the bed.

"Hospital corners?" he says, sounding disturbed. Casey doesn't roll his eyes, but only because it'd be wasted on Chuck's back. "Really?"

Casey noses the soft, dark hair at the back of Chuck's neck, fitting himself against the curve of Chuck's ass. Must have showered at Morgan's; Casey recognizes Anna's Bath and Body Works vanilla beneath the faint smell of Thai. Chuck shivers, going still, and Casey cups his hips, grazing his teeth along the side of Chuck's neck. "Like to be neat."

"Uh." Chuck tilts his head back slightly, going boneless with a little sigh. Casey's beginning to think that the entire Jill situation could have been avoided right from the start if Walker had just ponied up and took the man to bed; there are worse ways to ensure asset loyalty. "Right. Neat. Neat's good."

"Very." Reaching a little lower, he unbuttons the waist of Chuck's jeans, easing them down his hips along with the worn boxers. Leaning over Chuck's shoulder, he identifies the tiny Enterprises spread over the dark blue cotton and grins, hiding it in a bite to Chuck's shoulder that makes him shudder.

"Uh." Chuck makes a vague grab toward his clothes but steps out of them with a nudge. "You're not--concussed and thinking I'm a hot spy you have to seduce for a mission, right?" Turning sharply, Chuck trips over the pile of jeans, chin connecting sharply against Casey's shoulder. "That was smooth."

Casey smirks and takes Chuck by the shoulders. "Sure you're not?" Then pushes him onto the bed.

Somehow, he's not surprised Chuck gives the bed one more distrustful look before backing up, long limbs a little awkward and completely screwing up the flat comforter and sheet beneath with a few key struggles. And damned if Casey doesn't know it's deliberate. Shucking his own jeans, he crawls on the bed after him, grinning at the way Chuck instantly refocuses, tongue soft and insistent against his lips and trying to touch everywhere all at once.

Casey knows Chuck's file up, down, and sideways; there's a list for women but not for men, and if he and Morgan (or Bryce) had gotten anywhere this far, Casey would know about it. But Chuck's never been the kind to worry about technicalities regarding his inexperience at anything else, so Casey doesn't see any reason to remind him now. Biting Chuck's lip, chasing with a soothing lick, Casey ducks his head, sucking a bruise into the smooth skin just below Chuck's ear with the entertaining image of Chuck flushing every time someone looks at him tomorrow at work.

It'll drive Morgan nuts.

"That's going to show," Chuck pants, then abruptly spreads his knees, and Casey bites down in surprise at the feel of bare skin and crinkly hair, the hard, smooth flesh of Chuck's cock rubbing along his. "Oooh, but keep doing that," he gasps. "No problems here."

"Bet not." Casey eases back, bracing a hand on the bed, rocking his hips into Chuck's, wanting to see his face. The dark eyes are glazed with pleasure, unself-conscious in trying to get more, fingers digging into Casey's shoulder to draw him back down, short fingernails scratching impatiently along Casey's skin like electricity.

"Come on," Chuck breathes, head twisting to the side. Casey can feel him leaking between their bellies, slicking their skin, and Casey reaches between them, jerking them a few times before letting go and shifting down the bed. Chuck makes a protesting noise, coming up on both elbows, and Casey looks at him with a smirk before tilting Chuck's cock up and swallowing him down.

"Oh my God." Chuck's head bounces against the mattress, heels skidding on the blanket. "Wow, that's--oh yeah, please keep doing that--that too. And that. Oh. Oh my God did they train you in that or something?"

Actually, yes, but Casey figures Chuck wouldn't hear the answer even if he gave it. The "Yes, please," and "That," and "Wow," prove for all time there is no situation that is beneath Chuck's commentary, and Casey wets his thumb, reaching up to rub a slow circle around one small, hard nipple to see if he can reduce Chuck to syllables.

It works, too, and Casey pulls off long enough to press a kiss against the soft, warm skin of Chuck's thigh before he says, "Spread your legs."

It would figure this is where Chuck's willing to understand the definition of obedience. Sucking two fingers, he meets Chuck's eyes, then draws them down behind his balls and circling the sensitive skin of his hole.

"Oh," Chuck breathes, falling back on the bed with a bounce. Then, "That's new." Casey licks a stripe up his cock. "And good."

"Glad to hear it." Palming Chuck's erection, Casey shifts up the bed, keeping the slow circle with a press inside each time, then leans down and swallows Chuck's cock just as he pushes one finger inside him.

From the inarticulate noises above him, Casey figures he just cut off Chuck's verbal skills at the knees and adds a second finger, following with a hard suck until he can feel Chuck shaking, thighs tense and belly tight beneath his hand. Rubbing soothingly, he pulls off and pulls out, wanting lube if this is going to go any farther. Chuck catches his mouth in a kiss halfway to the bedside table, rubbing desperately against Casey's thigh, and it's almost enough to make him forget where he was going.

"Chuck," he says, surprised at the sound of his own voice, a rough croon that makes Chuck still, "hold on." Rubbing a thumb against his cheek, lingering against the rough skin of his jaw, Casey reaches for the drawer and pulls it out, because he doesn't have the hand-eye coordination or the patience to hunt around when he can just dump it on the bed. Chuck half rolls to look, eyeing one knife, one gun, one grenade (sentimental value), three razors, condom, lube, and two bags of M&amp;Ms.

"That's--you keep a grenade?"

"Long story," Casey says, plucking out condoms and lube and pushing the rest to the side.

"I'd like to hear that one."

And the thing is, he probably does. Casey feels himself smile, easing Chuck back down flat before slicking his fingers, watching Chuck's gaze fix and glaze again. Lifting Chuck's thighs over his, he reaches down again, circling slowly before pressing inside, slow and easy. Chuck doesn't fight him, fingers digging into the blankets, staring up at Casey with perfect trust. "Want to fuck you."

Chuck nods agreement. "Kind of thought that's where this was going. Oh!" Twisting his hips, one hand flails out, closing on Casey's thigh in a death grip. "Yeah. That. Again."

Casey obliges, concentrating on the way Chuck tenses and relaxes, moving hopefully into each slow thrust of fingers, stilling at the feel of three. Casey holds still and doesn't think of his own cock, painfully hard and leaking, and the smooth, tight feel of Chuck around his fingers and how good he'll feel around him, waiting until Chuck shudders and pushes up against him before he lets himself breathe.

Pulling out, he smirks at the low whine of dissatisfaction, picking up a condom wrapper and tearing it open, surprised at the way his hands are shaking. Abruptly, Chuck's fingers close over his, plucking it from his hands, murmuring, "Okay, this part? I know. From the other side anyway," and Casey would resent the complete sentences if he could think past the restless movement of Chuck's hips against his. It's mind-blowingly good to just feel those fingers working the condom down before he lies back, looking at Casey hopefully. "Okay, go."

"Okay go?"

Chuck grins, tilting his hips up invitingly, and Casey hears himself laugh even as he eases Chuck's thighs up and presses against the slick opening, surprised by the realization of how badly he wants this, wants this man who fumbles for his hand, fingers lacing through his as Casey pushes past the initial resistance, pressing their joined hands into the mattress by Chuck's head and kissing him when he's finally all the way inside.

"Fuck," Casey whispers; it feels better than he remembers it ever being and Chuck's panting against his ear. Pressing their foreheads together, Casey takes a shaky breathe, then another, running his free hand down Chuck's side, aware of the wire tense muscles, the way Chuck's fighting the urge to push him away. "Okay?"

Slowly, Chuck's breathing evens out; Casey slides his fingers over Chuck's softening erection and gets a twitch, circling his hips carefully to get Chuck used to him at the same time. Chuck breathes out hopefully and Casey runs a palm over the slickness on his belly and wraps his hand around Chuck's cock, pulling out just a little, thrusting in time with the first slow pull.

"Oh, yes," Chuck murmurs, eyes feathering closed, warily shifting into the easy thrust. "That works." Casey keeps it easy at first, shallow thrusts to get Chuck used to the movement, changing the angle each time until Chuck shudders all over and his eyes snap open in shock. "And that's really good, do that again, that's--oh wow, can you--"

Casey can; Chuck groans, low and pleased, the hand on Casey's shoulder sliding down to his ass, hooking a knee high over Casey's hip and just going for it.

And typically, Chuck's learning curve is more like a vertical line; zero to son of a bitch in five seconds or less. Chuck rocks back, reaching down to curl his fingers around Casey's on his cock, wanting it faster, tighter, with a twist that makes Casey curse, that warm, quick mouth sucking the side of his neck, his jaw, teeth against the shell of his ear, "Come on," spread out in something like thirty syllables with no consonants, but Casey can figure it out. Pressing their joined hands harder into the bed, Casey tilts Chuck's hips just enough, getting one leg over his shoulder, and tries to fuck the words right out of him.

Vaguely, listening to Chuck's panting breath, startled gasps, and strings of broken sounds that aren't anything like words, he wonders if he can make Chuck say fuck and adds that to the list of things to save for next time (next time?), because right now, Casey can't even be sure what his own name is. Chuck's hot and tight and utterly uninhibited, sweat-slicked and kisses like he's starving for it, and Casey thinks maybe he has been, too, burying his groans in Chuck's shoulder, trying to hold off until he can feel Chuck start to shake.

It doesn't take long; Chuck goes still, muscles going tight around Casey, cock jerking in his hand before spilling abruptly over them both. That's all Casey needs; he gasps and thrusts into the tight, pulsing warmth, spine liquid heat, and comes hard enough to see stars. He can taste the echo of Chuck's name on his lips, but he's smiling because Chuck breathes "John," before going limp.

A while later, Casey thinks about moving. Chuck's not complaining, but he has the late shift tomorrow and might want to sit down eventually. With a grunt, Casey pulls out as carefully as he can, tossing the condom in the wastebasket by the bed.

Chuck doesn't move for a second (not encouraging), then groans softly. "Okay, that hurts."

"Hmm." Pushing him on his side, Casey runs careful fingers over the swollen flesh, relieved to find nothing questionable. "No bleeding. You're okay."

Chuck looks over his shoulder incredulously. "Way to kill the afterglow. No bleeding?"

"Do my best." But he gets up, finding a clean washcloth and waiting impatiently while the water warms up. Chuck's made a mess of the bed by the time he gets back, buried under the blankets like he's preparing for hibernation. Ruthlessly pulling them back, Casey cleans him up, ignoring the startled yelps before throwing the washcloth into the bathroom and climbing into bed.

Chuck mutters but curls up willingly enough when Casey's beside him, pressing back at the first touch with a contented sigh and an incipient snore. Abruptly, Casey remembers his own exhaustion and settles on his pillow with a "If you try to hog the blankets, I'll shoot you."

"Mmm." Fingers lace through his on Chuck's belly. "How romantic."

Casey hesitates. "Only a flesh wound."

"I knew you had warm and mushy--."

"Go to sleep."

Chuck answers with a slow, deliberate snore. Casey realizes he's smiling right before he falls asleep.

Mornings like this usually involve getting away before anyone notices their secrets are missing, so it's novel to wake up and enjoy the feel of another body in bed without having to start his exit strategy. The potential for awkwardness is balanced by boneless comfort; opening one eye, Casey can just see his clock over Chuck's head, but he doesn't need to read it when his body tells him it's just after dawn.

And there's no good reason to so much as move when his main subject of surveillance is right here in easy surveillance range. Casey can't help but find this so much more practical than bugs, and with pleasant perks.

"Argh," Chuck tells the pillow, which would only be worrisome if Chuck didn't always treat morning like an enemy he could defeat by sheer will. Casey's patient as Chuck ducks back under the covers, knowing the exact moment Chuck remembers by the "So I'm not wearing pants."

"Beside the bed," Casey offers, supporting himself on one elbow to see how this goes; Chuck is anything but predictable.

Chuck stills, then the blankets peel down, revealing hair that's possibly achieved sentience and wary eyes. "Hot spy?" he asks, eyes narrow. "Ellie will kick your ass."

Casey believes it; he's seen the woman do an eight hour shift in heels. "Not concussed," Casey answers easily. It's hard not to smile; Chuck's rumpled and flushed with three visible hickeys. There's a second that Casey tries to work out a way to ask Chuck how he feels without actually using that word or any that relate to it, but luckily, Chuck's not reticent where feelings, his, Casey's, anyone's are concerned.

"How's the graze?" Chuck asks, rolling on his back, eyes widening before instantly flopping back on his side, facing Casey. "Ouch." With a frown, he reaches back warily, and Casey shifts closer, covering his hand and pinning it to his back before kissing away the frown. Chuck's lips stop moving, mouth soft and open. Then he plants a hand into Casey's chest, pushing him back. "Graze. Missile thing?"

Huh. Casey'd forgotten about that. Chuck pushes him on his back, checking the bandage with a clucking sound that he had to have picked up from living with two doctors. Then Chuck hooks a knee over his good hip, bracing himself on both elbows to look down at Casey with a self-satisfied grin. "I wondered why the door was always unlocked when I came over."

Casey scowls up at him, and Chuck licks into his mouth slow and deep, so comfortable and warm that Casey curls a hand around the back of his neck, fingers threading through soft hair, content to stay like this pretty much for good.

Chuck's stomach growls abruptly, and Chuck jerks back, flushing; it figures that's something that would embarrass him. "Uh, sorry."

"Hungry?" Casey's not sure what's in his kitchen, and he's even less sure he can summon the interest to figure it out when Chuck's here, naked and warm from sleep. Letting Chuck wander home to fend for himself isn't even in the range of acceptable; Casey can't think of one good reason to let him go before he has to. "What do you want?"

Chuck tilts his head, studying Casey soberly, and Casey has an uncomfortable (hideous) second to wonder what Chuck will say before he leans down and Casey can taste his smile. "Pancakes."


End file.
